Patsy Porco

Posts Tagged ‘Google’

Rhapsody in Email

In Humor on January 13, 2018 at 3:35 pm

Yahoo Mail is down and I need to open an email from my bank. I got locked out of my bank’s online site for entering the wrong password three times, and I was told that I would have to reset my password, using the authorization code that was sent to my Yahoo Mail address. However, I can’t open my Yahoo Mail.

I should get rid of Yahoo Mail because, apparently, if you have Yahoo or AOL for your email, everyone knows that you are OLD. Having a Gmail account tells the world that you are normal — not cool, just normal, as opposed to being a stuck-in-your-ways old person.

I have a Gmail account. In fact, I think I have several. I even saved the logins and passwords, so I can access them. I just don’t use a Gmail account because everyone emails me at my Yahoo address. It’s such a hassle to change email addresses, because you have to check your new and old email accounts for a long time because, even if you let everyone in your address book know that you’ve changed your email address, not all of them will stop using the old one. Some of them will and some of them won’t. That’s because it’s a nuisance to change someone’s email address in your address book. The only people who will use your new email address are those to whom you’ve sent an email, because they can just hit, “Reply.” They won’t even notice what address they replied to.

But, back to my Yahoo Mail problem: I googled, “What is wrong with Yahoo Mail?” and was taken to a page with a “real-time” chart of Yahoo Mail’s activity. According to the chart, while Yahoo Mail did have problems this week, they’ve been resolved. Maybe they have been resolved in Yahoo world, but I still can’t open my email. Neither can a lot of people, and they left comments. The comments section on any web page is always entertaining to read. Here’s my favorite from this page:

My child just died a week ago and I needed a bunch of emails and information. This YAHOO problem made my personal loss even more difficult and from here on out I hope to phase out this crappy yahoo service. I have no access to many pictures of my dead child and as soon as I get those back I will delete my account forever.

 

If “nonshopper” really lost his or her child, I am sorry. But I have to wonder if he or she is telling the truth, because who keeps pictures in Yahoo Mail? Accessing photos from your email is very time-consuming because you have to remember who sent you the photo you’re looking for, then do a search for that person’s emails, and then look for the paperclip icon to see which email contains an attachment. Sometimes people will email photos by copying/pasting them right into the email, so a paperclip icon wouldn’t appear at all. I’m having a hard time believing this person. Some people enjoy jerking the chains of others.

Take my husband. The other day, he got a telephone call from a telemarketer. He listened for a second and then said, “Hold on a minute, Sarah. I’m busy now. How about you give me your phone number and I’ll call you when you’re busy?” (He borrowed this line from a Seinfeld episode.) Then he hung up.

“I can’t believe you were so rude,” I said. “That person is just doing her job.”

“We’re on the no-call list,” my husband replied.

“Then report the company,” I said. “Don’t yell at the poor woman who is just trying to make a living. She’s probably working on commission. If she’s lucky, she’s making minimum wage.”

“I don’t think so,” my husband said.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“It was a robo-call,” he replied.

It turns out that my husband likes jerking my chain.

chain jerk

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A Gray Matter

In Aging, Humor on January 14, 2015 at 5:13 pm

“Where ignorance is bliss,/ Tis folly to be wise.”

— Thomas Gray

Ever since I read my MRI report* and discovered that I had mild brain atrophy—which my doctor had neglected to mention during my visit—I’ve been determined to stop any more atrophying and, if possible, reverse the damage. The jury is out on whether this is possible, but some doctors—or people posing as doctors on the Internet—claim that it can be done, so that’s good enough for me.

I also learned, from my Googling, that a deficiency in vitamin B12 can lead to brain atrophy, so I started eating those supplements like candy. I then attempted to join the brain-training website, Lumosity, but I was too dumb. Before Lumosity hits you up for a lot of money to play games to train your brain, they give you a “fit test” to assess your baseline scores. I played three sets of games that tested three different abilities (speed, train of thought, and memory). At the end of the test, I got my results. According to Lumosity, I scored higher than 19% of everyone in the world in speed, 14% in train of thought, and 3% in memory. Three percent. That means that 97% of the world has a better memory than I have. This worked to my advantage, though; by the time they asked me for my choice of payment to join, I had forgotten what I was signing up for, and left the site without cracking my wallet.

My boss told me that her neurologist husband believes that doing puzzles can improve brain atrophy so, right after work today, I’m heading over to Toys”R”Us. I hope he was referring to those wooden puzzles, or even the 100-piece scenic ones. If he meant crosswords or Sudoku, I’m out of luck. I’m no good at all at crossword puzzles, and I can’t even fathom how to work a Sudoku. Wish me luck.

* Read about it here at https://patsyporco.wordpress.com/2015/01/12/my-new-excuse-for-everything/

A Really Crummy Day

In Driving, Humor on February 2, 2013 at 7:30 pm

“I’m dying,” I thought. “Every bone in my body is in agonizing pain. I must have bone cancer.” This was going through my head while I slept last night. I think I remember kneeling up on my mattress and doing yoga to relieve the pain. I could have dreamed that I assumed the child’s pose to stretch out my back, though. I suppose I’ll never know. If I did, I don’t think it did much for the pain, because I recall that, after doing it, or dreaming that I was doing it, my spine and all of the radiating bones were still on fire.

I also had a very sick stomach. I had gone to bed at 4 p.m. because of my stomach distress. I didn’t wake up for 19 hours, except to assume the child’s pose, if I did, and scare the wits out of my husband. I’m fairly certain that I picked up the stomach bug at the house where I babysit young children. They all had it on Wednesday and I got it on Friday; a two-day incubation period sounds reasonable. While the mother of the children assured me that she had wiped down the entire house with Lysol, she didn’t count on my kissing them. If I got the virus from them, it was my own fault. I just love kissing babies. Kissing sick babies, however, is just not a good idea.

But, back to my midnight musings: Because I had a sick stomach and exquisite pain (I’ve always wanted to use that phrase) in my spine, arms, legs, ribs, neck, and shoulders, I added possible heart attack to my bone-cancer self-diagnosis. Earlier that day, I had taken a CPR class, so I knew what the symptoms of a heart attack were. In my unconscious state, I deduced from my various symptoms that I was on my way out. Considering the pain that I was in, this was not an unwelcome thought.

Around 4 a.m., I went downstairs into the guest room to visit my husband, who had the sense not to sleep with someone who had a stomach bug. He jumped out of bed from fright, and after composing himself, he asked how I was. I told him that I was sick. Very sick. Oh-so-sick.  Then I left the room, according to him. I don’t remember much of this visit, except that I didn’t do yoga.  What I do recall is that during the time that I was prowling the house, the pain in my spine and numerous bones started to recede. By the time I had made it back upstairs, it was gone. I still had a stomach ache, but the bone cancer had cured itself.

Over the years, I have learned to accomplish things while sleeping. I often come up with ideas for my blog, invent things, create uses for tortilla shells, and recall old grudges. Last night, I solved a problem. I realized that my bones probably ached from the wind coming in through the windows behind my bed. So, I propped a bunch of pillows against the headboard and slept upside down, under a mass of blankets and comforters. In a matter of minutes, I was sleeping like a baby with a stomach ache.

Before I drifted into a heavy sleep, I remember being glad that I didn’t have bone cancer, and probably wasn’t having a heart attack. I also concluded that both my stomach virus and my inflamed bones could have been avoided. I should have worn a mask around the sick kids (or, at the very least, not kissed them), and I should have covered my draughty windows. I also should have read the directions that came with my GPS.

As I mentioned, I had taken a CPR class that morning. The class was half an hour away from my house. I planned on using my GPS to get there, but for once, I had a backup plan: I printed out directions. Why I did this is a mystery to me. I have never had a problem with my GPS before, but someone from the Great Beyond must have whispered “Google Maps” into my ear. And, it was a good thing that I didn’t disregard the Heavenly suggestion.

So, I got into the car, plugged in the GPS, and clicked on the screen that made me swear that I would not touch the GPS while I was driving. I then started the car while the GPS was powering up (I didn’t lie to the GPS; I planned on entering my destination when I was stopped at a red light).  As I drove toward the highway, an ear-piercing whistling sound emitted from the device. While driving, I fumbled with the switch on the top of the screen to shut it off, but the screeching continued. I ripped the power cord out, with the same result: the high-pitched whine would not stop.

I was now at the highway entrance and couldn’t pull over. The only thing to do was to shove the GPS between my thighs and keep my legs as tightly closed as possible. This lessened the noise a bit, but not enough. So, I scanned the radio stations until I found one that was playing rap music and played it full-blast. Every once in a while, I could hear the whining of the GPS, so I had to retighten my thighs. This was all done while reading the directions that were propped on the steering wheel.

By the time that I reached the American Red Cross building, my nerves were frayed.  After I parked, I looked at the switch on the GPS screen. I fumbled with it again and the noise still wouldn’t stop. Then I held the switch in the Off position for a few seconds. When I released it, all that I heard was blessed silence. While I was grateful that the thing finally shut off, it was annoying to realize that I could have avoided half an hour of electronic whining, loud rap music, and cramps in my thighs, if I had only learned in advance how to turn off the GPS.

After the class, I went home, became violently ill and went to bed. That’s where this story started, and that’s a good place to end it.

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